Silent Prey

Like now. The cops have been here and they’re looking for your buddy—or whoever you sold that shit to, the monitoring gear.”
    “What?”
    “The guy you sold it to,” Whitechurch said insistently. “He’s this fruitcake killer, Bekker. Jesus Christ, the cops were all over me.”
    “New York cops?”
    “Yeah, some cooze and this mean-looking asshole from Minneapolis.”
    “Are they on your phone?”
    “This is not my phone. Don’t worry about that. Just worry about the dude who bought that shit . . . .”
    “I can handle that,” Bekker squeaked. The effort hurt. “But I need some product.”
    “Jesus Christ . . .”
    “A lot of it.”
    “How much?”
    “How much do you have?”
    There was a moment’s silence, then Whitechurch said, “You’re not with this Bekker dude, are you?”
    “It wasn’t Bekker. I sold it to a high school kid out on Staten Island. He’s using it for his science project.”
    That clicked with Whitechurch: Schoolteacher . . .
    Whitechurch had decided to take a vacation to Miami, could use the extra cash. “I could get you two hundred of the crosses, thirty of the angels and ten of the white, if you can handle it.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “Twenty minutes?”
    “No . . . I’ve got to come over . . . .” Let him think Bekker lived on Staten Island. “I need a couple of hours.”
    “Two hours? All right. Two hours. See you at nine. Usual place.”
     
    Bekker left the Volkswagen in a staff parking ramp off First Avenue; the ramp was open to the public from six until midnight. He nodded to the guard in the booth and rolled all the way up to the top floor. He’d watched Whitechurch before. He believed in taking care and knew that drug dealers routinely sold friends and customers to the cops. He’d learned a lot in jail; another side of life.
    Whitechurch insisted on punctuality. “That way, I only have the stuff on me, on the street, for a minute. Safer that way, you know?”
    Usually, Whitechurch would be walking out of the hospital, or down the sidewalk toward a bus bench, when Bekker came by. Once Bekker, arriving early, had watched him from the ramp. Whitechurch had come out, walked down the sidewalk toward the bus bench, had waited for two or three minutes, then had gone back inside, using the same door he’d used on the way out. Bekker had called to apologize, and made the pickup a few minutes later.
    Bekker walked down to the first floor, past the pay booth, and down the street to an alleylike passage to the emergency room. Night was settling in, the streetlights coming on. He was early, slowed down. Several people around. Not good. He turned down the alley to the emergency room, walked up to the door that Whitechurch usually came through. Pulled on the handle. Locked. Glanced at his watch. Still two minutes early. Whitechurch should be coming, just any moment . . . .
    He’d done an angel before he came, part of his emergency stash. Strong stuff; it freed his power . . . .
    The derringer was in his hand.
    The door opened and Whitechurch stepped out, and jumped, startled, when he saw Bekker.
    “What . . .”
    “We’ve got to talk,” Bekker whispered. “There’s more to this than I thought . . . .”
    He looked past Whitechurch to an empty tile-walled corridor. “Back inside, just a few minutes. I feel obligated to tell you about this.”
    Whitechurch nodded and turned, leading the way. “Did you bring the cash?”
    “Yes.” He held out the cash envelope and Whitechurch took it. “Have you got the product?”
    “Yeah.” Whitechurch turned as the metal fire doorclosed behind them. The corridor lights weren’t strong, but they were unforgiving blue fluorescents.
    Whitechurch had a plastic baggie in his hand and half stepped toward Bekker when he said, “You’re . . .” He stopped, catching his tongue, and began to back away.
    “The fruitcake killer,” Bekker said, smiling. “Just like on I’ve Got a Secret. You remember that show? Garry Moore, I think.”
    Whitechurch’s head snapped around, looking for room, then turned back to Bekker, but already his body was moving, trying to run.
    “Listen,” he said, half over his shoulder.
    “No.” Bekker leveled the gun at Whitechurch’s broad back and Whitechurch shouted, “No way,” and Bekker shot him in the spine between the shoulder blades. The muzzle blast was deafening, and Whitechurch pitched forward, tried to catch himself on the slick tile